


Quick Fix

by LazBriar



Series: Quick Fix [1]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Adult Language, Biting, Dirty Talk, Fellatio, Gay, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Romance, Short, Teasing, gay relationships, handjob, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-03-20 01:56:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18982852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazBriar/pseuds/LazBriar
Summary: A series of short musings. Nothing plot focused, but entertaining thoughts on the side for a junkie. Swift, easygoing short blurbs between yourself, Angel Dust, or anything involving the Hazbin Hotel cast. Meant to work like a fast-and-easy hit. Events take place a little while after The Thief, The Spider, and The Hotel, but you don't need to have read the latter to enjoy them.





	1. Spiderbite

**Author's Note:**

> You can't sleep, but Angel Dust has a way to help. You wake up something else, though.

**Spiderbite**

Ache.

Agh, what a terrible sensation. You shift, you turn, you throw yourself into every angle you can imagine, trying to find some personal geometry which might settle your bones. But goddamn, you just _can’t._ Because you ache. In a very, very specific way. Your mind is restless, as is your flesh. You’re downright sore, because you’ve been _this_ way for. . . Devil, how long? Almost an hour? Enough to yank you out of the ethereal dreamworld, that’s for sure.

Not even the silky embrace of your lover’s bed can put you at ease. The sheets – often as soft as velvet and beholden to a subtle, enchanting scent of perfume – might as well be an iron maiden. Each time you think you’ve found the right spot, the rest of you is uncomfortable again. And it doesn’t help you’re awake. No, no, not eyes open awake. You know. _Awake._

Your Little Anon ain’t having it tonight. At full salute, you woke yourself up with, well frankly, how _hard_ you are. Not necessarily arousal, either. But hard. And like a muscle strained, it’s making you sore, agitated, and uncomfortable, despite your attempts to ignore it. Usually, you’d get it over with, but here? In Angel’s room? Don’t think he’d appreciate a little surprise of “you” in his priceless pink sheets. So, again and again, you shuffle around, praying,  _hoping_ your exhaustion will take hold and force you to sleep. But, no such luck.

You sigh, you shift. You shift, you sigh. Your movements gently wobble the bed. Until, unfortunately, there’s an agitated mumble next to you. Oh fuck. Good job, Anon. Your antics just woke up your boyfriend, who was probably dreaming happily about hills of sparkly blow and blowing sparkly dicks.

“Nngmf.”

You freeze, lying on your side, decidedly “pointed” _away_ from Angel Dust, who – despite his preferences – might not appreciate a loaded gun jammed into his waist. Probably.

“Anon,” you hear him croak, weak and exhausted. “Stoooooop.”

You clear your throat, notably more awake than him. “Er, sorry.”

“Go to sleep and stop shakin’ the bed.”

He says it with a tired sigh, eyelids closed. You want to try, for _him,_ but hot damn your cock is staying put making things worse. Gah, it’s unrelenting. You can’t even press your legs together without feeling _pronounced,_ like you're unintentionally pushing your flank out. You’ve heard of morning wood but it wasn’t fucking morning and this was like a rock.

It _really_ doesn’t help when Angel curls over you, his soft, warm fluff squished into your back, an arm draped over your side. That makes it _one thousand times worse._ It’s like fuel on fire, because your member delights at the attention, twitching and pulsing. Oh fucking Devil if it gets any harder you might be able to drill a hole through the wall. You grimace.

“Can’t,” you admit. Yeah, you can’t. Not gonna’ happen. No way. Either you take care of Little Anon or you can say goodbye to a night of sleep. You don’t know what it is, you don’t know why, but your flesh has a mind of its own tonight.

Angel grumbles. He’s not having it. He turns, mouth to neck, huffing. His soft breath sends shivers through you.

“Go back to sleep or get out,” he whines. “Mmwakin’ me up.”

His spare arm comes around your waist. Oh no. You wince, because if he does then he’s gonna. . .

Yep.

“Mnn?”

His fingers brush across your length, and you tense.

“Uh. . .”

There’s a pause, an uncertain quiet. Then, slowly, things to start to process, and you can _feel_ the spider’s smile.

“Oh. Ohhhhohohoho.”

Angel grants you a weary chuckle, and you feel his digits wrap around your tense, shuddering length. You gasp, uncertain. That wasn’t going to help. If he kept this up you might not ever get soft again!

“Whaddo’ we have here?” he purrs. His lips come to your ear, hot whispers dripping from him, like the sweetest poison. Gah! You hate it when he does that! It’s _so fucking good._ He can put you in a trance with his voice (but don’t tell him, or he’ll get you to do _anything)._

“Mmm,” he continues. “No wonder.”

Soft, _soft_ whispers. They’re so quiet only you can hear them. Dark, private words only shared between the two of you. Sacred in how deliciously provocative they were meant to be. You wish he wouldn’t and you wish he would. The way he’s got you now, the way his arms are wrapping around your frame, like he’s caught you in a web, ugh, it’s too good for words. That’s an embrace for _you._ It might seem petty and unimportant to some, but Angel willingly holding you, willingly let you sleep with him. . . well, you kinda’ _get_ love songs now. You’d write one if his hand _wasn’t wrapped around your cock._

You hiss. “Angel,” you plead, “Don’t. . .”

Not because you don’t want it. Oh BOY do you want it. But, well, you want to have some more self-control.  Head of Security popping a stiffy at night and getting his spider to jack him off? What was this, a bad porno?

Angel Dust _doesn’t_ care. “Mmm, my _big_ thief. All restless-like.”

He starts to stroke in slow, _slow_ motions. His palm glides like silk and he knows how to twist and squeeze in all the right ways. He knows you, he knows your dimensions. He knows how you’re a little extra sensitive on the left side, he knows to massage your stones, or poking at your length with a finger gets an extra shudder out of you. All that learned knowledge getting tossed in, with a sleepy handie.

“Don’t get me riled up,” you challenge. “Don’t.”

He coos, excited. “Mmhmhm. Shhhhh.”

The sheets rustle as he grinds his palm along you, and every touch is like a wave of relief. Ugh, your cock was begging to be touched, but only by one specific set of hands.

“You been poppin’ pills?” continues Angel, nibbling your ear. “You’re a fuckin’ cannon. Havin’ dreams?”

You grunt. “Agh. . .”

Angel clasps you closer, dribbling seductive melodies into your head. He’s made a mess out of you, and _then_ he’s gonna’ make a mess out of you!

“Mm, I bet. Thinkin’ ‘bout your slutty spider? Was I good for daddy? Nmm?”

He’s hastening now. He’s stroking you from tip to base, and his free hand comes to your stones, cupping them in palm, enthroning them with his hot touch.

“Angel, please, shut up,” you plead. You’re not even half serious, not remotely, and Angel responds with an exhausted, dark chuckle.

“No no no, babe, let me. Let me take care of ya’. . .”

You have to look down, at what he's doing. You _have_ to. Though it’s dark in his room, you can make out weak illumination dancing over his white fluff fingers as they tease and twist your veiny prick, and the sight alone nearly makes you lose it. Something about it, something about _knowing_ it’s _your_ Angel Dust working you over this way throws you into an abyss of. . . well. Not lust, but a feeling you can’t quite describe. Lewd antics it might be, but it’s a strange sense of completion, fulfillment. You’d feel joy if you weren’t so fucking turned on.

“Mmmnf, poor baby,” continues Angel. “All cooped up. Needed your Angie, mm?”

He better knock it off because you’re going to fucking explode.

“Cut it out,” you warn.

His teeth nip at your neck, and he never lets up. “Nice dreams? Was I on all fours? Was I beggin’? Ooh, did ya’ put me on a leash? Was I gagged?”

He’s surprisingly witty for a tired spider, but something about his weary voice makes it so much better. You’re like an anvil, and his words are striking the hot, molten _want_ inside. It’s a particular sensation, a strange urge, because it arrives only in the darker parts of the night. It’s when sanity and common sense are peeled away, because the rest of your mind hasn’t woken up. So, all that’s left is a little animal screaming “get this spider twink to jack us off!”

“Bet ya’ want that, huh?” he says, hand moving faster. Presex dribbles from your tip, and he’s more than happy to take it and massage it against your inches, your flesh glistening like a marinated pole.

“Shut up,” you groan, and it’s really from a place of begging. God, Angel, no more, no more, you’re not gonna’ last.

“Good thing I’m just jackin’ ya off,” he teases. “I’d choke on ya. Mm, bet you’d like that?”

Heat is starting to surge right through you. You’re getting close, and if he eggs you on anymore he’ll be sorry.

“Nice thought huh? Puttin’ ya howitzer in my throat. Makin’ me beg like a little bitch boy twink slut, hehehe.”

“Angel!” you say through clenched teeth. Oh fucking hell, you’re trembling, you’re falling right into that pit called _Angel Dust is jacking you off._

He kisses your neck now, biting. “Come on,” he whispers. “Cum for your slut. Just think, babe, just think of me all whinin’ and wantin’ it.”

Oh. _Yes._

Also. . . oh? He bit you, and you shiver, and a dark, _dark_ thrill erupts right through you. That was new. That was _really_ new. It felt good, that bite, but something inside wants more, way more. He’s tossing his skilled palm now in rapid throws and dives, but another lingering voice asks for more. _More. Harder._

Is it because you’re tired? Pent up?

“Harder,” you say. You command. And you don’t mean his hand. “Bite me _harder.”_

You lean your neck to the side, inviting him.

He purrs. “Nmm?”

Angel makes a curious, uncertain noise. He’s probably as surprised as you. But he obliges, with a fanged chomp, adding some pressure. But not _enough_ pressure. You’re actually about to lose your goddamn mind – it’s like somebody shot one thousand volts of excited _yes_ right into you.

“Harder, HARDER!”

Angel clenches you close and strokes you close to peak. “Harder? Fuck, pockets, you’re wound up!”

He’s certainly more awake now, and so are you. He gnashes his teeth and you feel the skin break. Combined with his motions and the sudden rush of pain, you’re sent _way_ over the edge. Your cock trembles and ignites, a volcano, erupting with white, hot issue as you burst like – how did he put it – a cannon. Thick ropes of yourself jettison from the tip and make an utter, soaking mess of the sheets, Angel still stroking through it, his palms and fingers a sloppy, sodden mess of seed. You buckle, shiver, and feel yourself grin, a hot trail of red swimming down your neck.

You heave with satisfied breaths, letting off pleased, relieved moans. Oh thank fuck, the ache is gone. You’re going soft. You roll to your back, staring at the ceiling, swimming in the euphoria of your afterglow. Holy shit, that was _good._ You liked that. You liked that _bite._ That sudden, sting of pain. You uh, you were a little too into that.

“Mm, shit,” Angel curses, clicking on a light. His eyes are wide now, and the tiredness has left him. He wiggles his digits which was a web of _you,_ dripping with sticky dribbles.

His gaze comes to your neck, and he frowns. “Oh, shit!” A digit goes to the wound, rubbing it.

“Ah! I bit too hard. M’sorry babe.”

You smirk at him. “Oh no, no, I loved that.”

He blinks. “You bein’ serious?”

You rub your neck. Goosebumps roll over your skin. “Nmf. Bite me harder next time.”

He gives you a flabbergasted smirk, sitting up, reaching for a towel. “Uh. _Wow._ You uh, you into that shit, huh? I mean, I got some things in the closet. . .”

You’re not quite sure what the hell it was about. Maybe you like the idea of your spider marking you. Maybe it was the pain, the surge and hot sting accompanied by pleasure. You were, after all, accustomed to it. Years of mortal life getting fucked up by police, bums, barfights. . . one builds a tolerance.

He throws the towel on you. “Don’t bleed on my sheets.”

Guess he forgot about the river of spunk on your side, but, you warned him.

You clean your neck, leaning to kiss him. “Hope that wasn’t asking too much.”

He rolls his eyes playfully, smooching your forehead. “Yeah, yeah, sure. But they call it a safeword, smart guy. Get one.”

He grunts. “Great! Now _I’m_ wide awake!”

Well, tit for tat, you’re not a greedy bastard, least of all to your Angel. Your free hand goes to his loins, touching him softly. He whimpers, legs spreading.

“We’re gonna’ have to sleep on the couch after this.”

 


	2. Imperfections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel Dust doesn't like a part of himself, so you help him work through it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short blurb. Inspired by a cute sketch of Angel Dust, whereby he's admittedly bothered by his toe-claws.

Never fear your imperfections. It’s what you makes you special. Broken and lost and strange as things are, all you have is yourself and the people around you. What you lose can make you stronger, what you don’t have can make you better.

Well, it’s the logic you wear these days, anyway. The whole ‘missing an eye’ thing is still new. A lot of things are, in fact. As you look yourself over in one of Angel’s mirrors, you scan your face a few more times. Even after you came back, the scars are still there. Your prosthetic is gone, replace by a ‘new’ arm, but it doesn’t make you feel any more yourself. It’s like a phantom thing, an alien piece. Where your left eye used to be too, well, it’s a vacuum now. Snaking scars surround it, reminders of your previous encounters. Sometimes, you still can’t believe it’s gone.

New way, old you. Even your occupation is. . . strange. Security? You haven’t gotten used to that. In fact, now that you’ve time to sit back and take it all in, it’s _still_ so strange to you, this life. A month or so ago you were rolling buildings and stealing from gangsters. Now? You’re going “clean.” You have a boyfriend.

_You have a boyfriend._

Now that one _really_ takes you off guard. Certainly, wasn’t this way in your mortal life, no. There was no time to get sweet on a fella, not that you ever thought about it. And, once you joined ranks with a group of machismo criminals operating on a dated philosophy of “the gay lifestyle,” well, any notions of being with another man were kaput. Wasn’t so different down here either, if certain members of a certain spider’s family were anything to go by.

You hear Angel clench his teeth, swearing a storm of profanities.

_“Godfuckdamnfuckinghatethishitfuck!”_

That’s him. That’s your number one. That’s the guy who has your heart. Effeminate, foul-mouthed, broken, damaged, crossdressing, drug-abusing. Perfect. That’s Angel Dust. You glance at him in the reflection, his white-fluff body kissed by dim lamplight. His back is to you, on the edge of his bed, and he seems to be struggling with something.

You were trying a patch for your “eye,” but, the frustrations of your spider always take priority.

“Losing a battle with the sheets?” you call over.

He grunts. He doesn’t answer, and instead throws something across the room, a piece of black fabric.

“ _Thatwasfuckingexpensive_!” you hear him hiss.

He’s agitated. Not the ‘playful’ agitated either, not the ‘you’re pissing me off in a cute way.’ Something’s bothering him.

“Angel?”

He huffs. “What?”

His back is still to you. He’s in a casual attire, something he normally dawns when it’s close to the evening.

“Something the matter?”

He pouts, falling to his side, crossing arms. “No. It’s nothin’.”

Never try to lie to a liar.

“Angel. . .”

“It’s nothin! Shaddup!”

You place a patch over your left eye and turn to him. Angel’s upset and that bothers you.

“You’re really trying that with me?”

You go to the bed, sitting on ‘your’ side. At once, Angel tenses, and he pulls his legs into his chest. It’s an odd movement, almost like he doesn’t want you to see something.

“Could ya’ just drop it?” he bites back.

“That is the best way to get me to _not_ drop it,” you say. You want to reach over and comfort him, but you get the impression he doesn’t want to be touched.

“You can tell me,” you coax. “What’s wrong?”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“It’s fuckin’ stupid and dumb and you’ll laugh.”

“What?”

“I just _told_ ya’!”

You blink. This is one of those ‘boyfriend’ dynamics throwing you for a loop. Communication is the foundation to a successful, well, anything. With your old crews, it was everything. You wanted to be meticulous, thorough, leaving nothing unturned. In a relationship though, this didn’t always work. Angel Dust had a forest of problems to sort through, not that you blamed him for _any_ of it. But, it was a matter of navigating this forest, avoiding the brambles and thorns.

“I won’t laugh. I promise.”

Hmm. You offer a consolation. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.”

Finally, he turns, glancing to you. He’s pouting, features pulled with a frown.

“I’ll fuckin’ throw your ass on the couch if you so much as _smirk,”_ he says. Well, it’s clearly bugging him, whatever it is.

“You have my permission to give me a black eye.”

Angel sighs, slowly sitting up. “Nice try, asshole. I know you’re into that shit.”

Okay, he’s kind of right. You don’t say anything though. He crosses his arms, spare ones pushed against the bed. His eyes are downcast, staring at his legs. Well, not his legs. His “toes.” There are only two for each leg, more ovular and bean shaped.

“I fuckin’ hate these,” he mutters. At first, you don’t understand. But, he flexes his toes, and in doing so, shows a set of curled, black talons. Or claws? They’re arachnid in nature, sharp and curved. Actually, they’re kind of badass, if you’re being honest. Like knives they retract and push, like a switchblade. Fascinating.

Angel Dust, however, has a complete opposite opinion. You can see the loathing in his eyes. He kicks his blanket, hiding them.

“What? Why?”

He flushes. “They just ruined a pair of lace! Fuckin’ tore a hole right through em! FUCK!”

He clenches his hands. “I hate it!

Hmm. This isn’t a momentary lapse of annoyance. His words are genuine, and visceral. He considers this part of himself an imperfection.

“Oh. . . Angel.”

You reach out for him, touching his shoulder. He doesn’t resist, so you slide into the spider, arm around his lithe frame.

“Ugly and stupid and I can’t get rid of em’. Gotta’ hide em’ all the fuckin’ time.”

You caress him, gentle and caring. Hmm. It’s true, now that you think about it, you’ve never noticed them before.

“It’s bullshit!” he bristles, spare hand rubbing his head.

You squeezed him. “I think they’re cute. Well, before you hid them.”

He grunts. “Oh my fuck _shut up._ Ya’ _have_ to say that, you’re my boyfriend.”

You were about to chuckle but you fight it back. “You think I’m lying?”

Even through verbal fangs, hearing him call you ‘his boyfriend’ sends a pleasant thrill racing through you. Just another one of those things to get used to.

“You’re pretty _good_ at it,” he shoots back.

Goodness, he’s prickly. This is really bothering him, small as it seems. But, in a way. . . you understand. He wasn’t angry, he was afraid.

“It’s okay,” you say. “I promise. Can I see them?”

He tenses, like you’ve jabbed him with something sharp. “Nnh? NO!”

His cheeks flush like hot scarlet, and he looks away. His extra limbs yank the covers _firmly_ over his clawed ‘feet,’ but you can hear them scratch the fabric.

“NAGGH!” he screams. “FUCK!”

You stay firm, despite his anger. “Now can I see them?”

“Now can you fuck off?” he hisses.

You know why. You know this feeling. When your left arm was essentially _gone,_ leaving behind a hideous, meaty stump, it terrified you. Not only from the loss of _yourself_ but because it was absolutely hideous. Even here, even in Hell, infection was possible, and you were raw and red like spoiled meat because of it. When Angel wanted to see it, fear stole you. You were certain, in that moment, it would disgust him. It would repel him away, because why wouldn’t it? But despite your concerns, despite your injury, he looked at like it was nothing. A formality. Even with such a grievous imperfection, he only saw you.

He was, you realized, afraid of that. That, perhaps if you saw this, you’d feel repulsed. Perhaps the feeling extended to his ‘adoring’ public too. Angel was so careful and precise with his image, after all, and these ‘claws’ were something he couldn’t really control.

“Please?” you say.

He growls, he shudders, he blushes. He looks down, and away. Doesn’t respond. But, slowly, the blankets are pulled off, and so too are the talons, shimmering like slivers of sharp obsidian.

They’re quite elegant, you must say. They fill you with. . . a strange attraction. Deadly. You _like_ deadly. You get hot and bothered when Angel chatters about his preference for suppressors and guns, now it was like he had built in pocket-knives.

“Mm,” you say. “Scratch me with those some time.”

He doesn’t like that. “Don’t. Fucking. _Joke.”_

He’s pretty cute when he’s angry.

“I’m not,” you say. “I like them.”

He growls. “I hate liars.”

You ignore this. “Well I _love_ these.”

“May I see them?” you add.

He flinches. “Nnh? N-no! No, no, NO.”

A sigh. “Angel, baby, what’s it going to take? There’s nothing wrong. What, you need me to suck your toes off?”

He goes quiet. For a long, long while. Uh oh, wait a second. He wasn’t taking that seriously, was he? You would, but, well. You weren’t really a _foot_ guy.

He whispers something. Very low, almost trembling, though you didn’t hear.

“Hmm?”

Now his eyes come to you. Wide and vulnerable. You could get lost in his black sclera, and you see something. A timid want. Were he to blush any harder his fluff would turn a fine shade of red.

“. . . kiss them. . .”

You blink again. “I’m sorry?”

His voice is soft and trembly, like a virgin asking his date for a favor. He’s _never_ sounded so uncertain before, and that’s coming from _him,_ Angel fucking Dust.

“Will you kiss them?”

He says it like he regrets it immediately, bashful.

You’re perplexed, though intrigued, looking between he and the claws. “What? Kiss what? The toes?”

He nods. “If you’re bein’ serious. . . I. . . please?”

Well, he doesn’t have to fucking ask you twice. You’re not one for feet, and you don’t fancy yourself acquiring this particular ‘taste’ any time soon. However, showing him affection, appreciation, love, you’re more than happy to oblige. This thing, small as it appears, is genuinely agonizing to him. So, you need to submit yourself, supplicate to a part of his body he considers ugly or unwanted.

You smile. “If that’s what my spider wants.”

He watches you move, in astonishment, taking a position on his side of the bed. You gesture for his legs, to which he timidly brings over the side. It’s very different seeing him like this. Normally, Angel’s the one with _all_ the sexual authority. All the experience, the prowess. He brings you to different parts of desire. But now? Sounded like his first time in a strip joint.

You do as requested though. Pressing your lips against his soft legs first, nice and sweet. You caress them, appreciate their dimensions. You just want him to feel good, assured in himself. Each bess is slow and thoughtful, tracing down until you reach the clawed toes.

Like kissing a royal hand, you apply tender, loving smacks to each one. Angel watches with bewilderment, perhaps disbelief. But you do it. You do it like a peasant kneeling before their lord, respectful and loving. You take the claws in your fingers, looking them over, intrigued. They really are something else, beautiful in how dangerously shaped they are. Christ among the dead, the cuts he could make with these.

“How do you put it?” you say, looking up at him. One more kiss on his leg. “Mwah?”

He blinks, like he’s in a trance.

“Y-you weren’t fuckin’ around. . .”

You hold a foot in both hands, softly squeezing it. “You thought I was?”

You glide a hand along his leg. “Never hide these Angel, least of all from yourself.”

“Besides,” you add. “These are badass. Lace and built in knives? Fuck.”

It seems to help. He manages a small smile, flexing his toes now, as though with a newfound pride.

“You’re fuckin’ with me,” he says.

 _Now_ you smirk. “You think I’m not aroused?”

He leans back. “N’okay, okay. Easy stallion.”

You shudder, standing, excited by his comment. “Careful, now, or this ‘stallion’ will start bucking.”

You glance down. Aside from his flushing, you notice the stiff dimensions of _Angel_ prodding through his lace. Well, the tables have turned, haven’t they?

You point to his crotch. “You want me to kiss that too?”

He looks away. “Hmf. Maybe.”

Well, it doesn’t take long for you to get the lace off. And tonight, you don’t mind ‘nurturing’ his root, either. You’re no maestro when it comes to fellatio, but, hearing the delighted moans and hot whimpers from your spider is enough to drive you on. Suckling his flesh isn’t so hard (heh), so long as you mind the teeth.

Oh, it really, _really_ helps when his legs wrap around your back while your head busies itself in his crotch. You feel the slick claws pierce the skin and that same, dark shiver whips right through you, spurring your mouth to work harder. That’s new too, this newfound lust for a little pain.

Side discovery: Angel Dust’s jizm is strangely sweet.

The next morning, Angel dawns some long socks, albeit this time he’s not hiding the claws. Never fear your imperfections.

Because sometimes it’s pretty hot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Work through it" AKA "blow him."


	3. Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The weight of your past life, the burden of your sins, they haunt you like shadows. You find solace in Angel Dust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks Joji.
> 
> Hahah, "quick fix is about 2k in blurbs."
> 
> This takes place a bit after The Obsessor, as You struggle to fight with the returning memories of your past.

 

 

 

**Sanctuary**

Fear. Anxiety.

You don’t miss them.

In your mortal life, you chased them out with a bottle, a needle, a line. If you had reservations before a job, sweet lady white was there to obliterate all sense of apprehension. That _Clancy and Clerk_ bank job, with the hostage situation? Nothing says “dispose of morality” like the black, electric rush of liquid sin. Everything felt good back then, and there was no guilt, no low, because the days were blurs, lost in violence and adrenalin and drug and alcohol. Now?

You can’t do that anymore. But the sins of who you were aren’t ready to let go. They’re ghosts, they’re haunts in your mind, and they’re returning. They’re rising through the inky layers of your ebbing memory. When you’re alone, their faces rush back. When you close your eyes, you can hear them. And then you feel it again. You feel the fear, the anxiety, the twitch. This time, though, there’s no escaping with a syringe, no running to the end of a 40oz, no crew to “live it up” with the next score. Just you and them.

You’ve done what you can to stay focused. Hotel security work does. . .  something. It has blueprints, complex layouts, things to consider. Weaknesses you need to fix, calculations to keep your mind busy. But it’s not enough. Cheap brandy and cigarettes are poor substitutes too, and the lack of sleep is starting to eat at you, day by day. It’s worse because Angel’s not fond of it at all, and that’s the worst of all of it.

Downstairs, you’re distracted. With the Hotel opening nearing ever closer, Charlie’s like a songbird with a whole animated special of things to sing. She can barely contain herself, telling everyone about her plans, what to expect. The meetings have been at least every night, where all the current residents are brought to a room and she daintily checks in with the status of everything. She also makes it a point to gush about all the fascinating ideas she believes will put even the worst sinner on the path to redemption.

You hear. . . some of it.

“. . . and a movie night with philosophical undertones can really help us understand each other. . .”

You aren’t really listening. Your foot keeps assaulting the floor with taps. You can’t keep your fingers still, cross armed, single-eye affixed to nothing in particular. Are you. . . sweating? Why? Oh, it’s like a job, it’s like a mark, isn’t it? This is how they went. Charlie’s at the board, pointing. Everyone’s gathered, planning and waiting. There are so many angles to consider, new residents, new potential threats, new hazards. Husk grumbles. Vaggie chimes. The Bois baah. Niffty flutters. Angel makes a snark. Alastor chuckles.

It’s like the jobs. The planner, the comments, the crowd. But you can’t settle the apprehension in the usual way.

You’re just tapping. It’s all muffled and clouded and you can’t process it.

“. . .arts and crafts. . .”

Your breath is starting to race. You keep thinking, and every time you do the shadows flare up. You’re clenching your fists hard now, and your teeth grind together. What if. . . what if a new resident is someone from your past? What if they show up? Oh fucking shit, they have to be down here. You never even considered that!

Harder and harder your foot taps.

“. . .naturally. . . vet them all. . . security. . .”

Security, fucking Christ. You remember the two pigs that wouldn’t just get on their goddamn knees? Who just had to play hero? Are they down here too? Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“. . .non. . .”

Your fingers press so hard into your palm you feel the sting of broken skin.

“. . .Anon?”

Your heart is racing. It’s harder to breathe, like your lungs are made of lead.

“HEY!”

Angel’s voice snaps you out of the well of fear you so swiftly fell into. You stop, look up. Everyone’s staring. You’ve been tapping the floor so hard it’s been hit like a drum. Sweat trickles from your forehead. It’s like all those moments before a mark, all those feelings right before you clasped a _Bernelli,_ right before the charge and violence and screams. But there’s nothing to drive the fear away.

“Excuse me,” you say. And you leave.

You rush right back to the office and yank out a pack, lighting a cig, pouring some godawful brandy. Your hand is trembling. The nicotine rush does _a little_ to settle your nerves, and the alcohol numbs the gruesome sensations rising from the muck. But it’s not good enough. There’s nowhere to hide, there’s no sanctuary here. You can’t do something drastic either, you’re Head of Security for fuck’s sake. _Everyone_ is relying on you. What kind of bullshit would that be if you start running tracks on your arm, or turned into a basshead again? Fucking hell, they didn’t even know about any of it.

You gulp down the brine and fire, leaning on the wall. The kickstart in your chest is like you’ve run a marathon, and the longer it goes the worse the memories come back. Reminding you, haunting you. You don’t know how to face this down, you’ve never had to. The last years of your mortal life was a hard rush, nothing else.

Devil, what is this? Why now? Was the strain finally getting to you? Were you breaking? There’s no relief to this, no haven, no. . .

“Hey!”

You hear your savior’s voice. You don’t even look. Dammit, no. Why did he have to follow? Why does he have to see you like this? You’re so tired of falling, collapsing, always needing rescue. You stare at the wall, trying to hide the growing intensity of your breathing, back to him.

“The fuck, Anon!”

Angel Dust’s voice is harsh, but. . . soft. Laced with concern.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you say, hoarse. He didn’t ask. A part of you doesn’t even want to turn around, because there are shadows, and if there are shadows. . .

“Uh, ‘scuse me?”

He steps close, kinky boots clicking with him. “Did ya’ just get done runnin’ a fuckin marathon, ‘cause ya’ sound like you’re about to keel over, pockets.”

Closer. He hears your breathing. He sees the thin rivers of scarlet dripping from your palm.

“Anon!” his voice is softer now, pleading. “Look at me!”

You turn. Slowly. But you don’t meet his eyes. Your single one is dilated, a fleck of sweat on your forehead.

Angel’s eyes go wide, confused, alarm. “Wha. . . what? What is this? Anon, what!? The fuck is goin’ on?”

What the _hell_ are you supposed to say? That the entire vista of your past life has come marching to the forefront of your conscious mind? That all the memories, so neatly buried in the graves of alcohol and drug abuse, are resurrected likely freshly reanimated corpses? That you, Anon, supposed Security head, are frightened? Because you don’t know what’s ahead? Because you’ve never taken these issues head on?

You’re not answering. He looks past you, spying the empty glass, the still lit cig simmering in glass ash tray, features tugged with concern. He sees how frayed your are, and his arms snap to yours, yanking up the sleeves of your shirt.

“Did you. . .”

He’s looking for something, marks. Guess he recognizes symptoms when he sees them. Funny, if you had a needle, it’d probably be used by now. He checks the other, peering, eyes narrowing, glancing between your face and flesh. He forces your palm open to see the timid lines of crimson.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “What? Talk to me goddammit!”

Words are hard. You want to say it, but you don’t. C’mon goddammit. This is your boyfriend, your friend, your partner. If you can’t confide in him then, as he puts it – what the fuck?

“I feel like I’m drowning,” you finally say. You feel like a lot of things. But the fear won’t go, even though there’s nothing there.

Angel’s mismatched eyes go a touch wider, staring at you like you’re doing as described. Wordlessly, he snatches you, and leads you to his room. He slams the heavy door shut and locks it.

It’s sanctuary.

He holds you for a moment, all four arms in a locking embrace.

“Hey, hey,” he whispers, “Come on. Ease up, eh? It’s all right. Breathe.”

Well you’re doing just that, but he means to _calm_ your breathing. Your heart is beating so hard _he_ can feel it through the fabric of his striped _Valentino._

“Shit,” he says, close and warm. His perfume drifts over, lulling and fragrant. “You’re buggin’ out.”

He looks at you again, wiping your head. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay. Dunno’ what this is, Anon, but promise, I _promise,_ it’s s’okay.”

The words form the brick, create the foundation. His proximity is the mortar. His presence the pillar. He’s safety, he’s protection, he’s your angel, he’s _your Angel._

Your heart settles, if only a bit. Slow, tedious, but the thumping recedes.

It almost spikes when there’s a knock on the door. Someone’s chiming, sweet voice muffles through.

_“Angel!”_

It’s Charlie.

_“Angel? Is everything okay? Anon took off! Is he with you?”_

Angel half glances on the floor, grunting. “Eh, Chuck! Uh.”

You shake your head. “I don’t want her to see me,” you say. Not like this. You can’t burden them with this.

“Not right now, Chuck!” Angel calls back.

You can _sense_ the concern. _“Why? What’s wrong?”_

He grimaces. “Not. Right. Now!”

There’s silence, deflation. Charlie offers a weak okay, drifting off. You’re sorry, Charlie, you are. But after everything, you owe it to them to not lay the weight of _yourself_ on them. Right?

He stares back at you, wide mismatched eyes pouring into your one. God, Angel. You’re so sorry for this, you are. To keep concerning him, making him feel this way. His strength seems boundless, a reservoir always hoisting you up. The chapel you pray at, the place you find safety and comfort it.

“Better?” he whispers, sensing your tense state. “See? Just you’n me. Just us. Okay? Nobody else.”

You nod.

“Can you tell me?”

Your jaw clenches, uncertain. “I need to sit down.”

So you do.

-*-

You take a while to get yourself “back to standard.” It’s not easy. The twitches don’t stop for a while and you feel anxiety from everything. You can’t shake the past, the things you know, what you saw in the In Between. Angel is patient, which is miraculous considering how snappy he is, even bothering to patch up your palm.

After a while, you start to talk. He sits on the bed, arms curled around legs, listening. You do your best, admitting the fears, the anxieties, and why. Mostly. You don’t tell him all of it, though. Not about the things you’ve done, just that the shadows of your past are harder to reckon with, and that you found solace in substances.

“Hnf,” he muttered. “No wonder. Trust me, from an expert, shit ain’t always the best.”

You clear your throat. “I didn’t think it would be problem.”

He laughs. “That’s cause you’re doin’ the stupid tough guy act.”

“I didn’t think. . .”

“Yeaaaah, ya’ really _don’t_ if you’re record is anything to go by. Seein’ the problem?”

You hear him shift, touching you from behind. His soft palms on your shoulders. It pours relief into you, intimate trust, the safety of another. Without him, you think, you’d be a mess, scouring the streets of Pentagram City like another nameless vagabond. You are impossibly lucky to have him in your life, to have him share _himself_ with you. You want the world for him, you want his happiness, but how can you give it to him if you keep falling?

“I can be better,” you say, resolute, though frail.

Another chuckle. “Nobody said this shit was gonna’ be easy.”

A squeeze.

“Pockets. . . look at me.”

You turn, facing him. His eyes are open and so caring. The light catches his gorgeous, soft white-fluff and the specks of pink splashed over him, along with his rosy freckles. Your heart aches when you see it, like there’s nothing else. All the shadows and voices and memories go silent. Your Angel’s light is too bright for them.

But, there’s a timid sadness to it. Why?

“Anon. . . ya’ love me, yeah?”

You respond faster than anything, clear and concise. “Yes!”

His head tilts. “Do you?”

Angel, no! No! The last thing you want in this god forgotten hellscape is for him to ever think you don’t!

“Angel! Yes! Of course I do!”

His extra limbs rub your sides, and each movement puts you more at ease.

“Do ya’ trust me?”

You blink. “Yes!”

What was he getting at? It hurt to hear him doubt you.

A small smile. “Then, babe, c’mon. Ya can’t do this shit anymore. Ain’t ya’ my best pal? Can’t ya talk to me?”

It crushes you. Of course he is, _of course is._

You nod. “I. . .”

“Don’t ya fuckin’ remember what I said? I’d protect ya’? What, you think I was futzin’ around? _Idiota._ I meant it, ya’ stupid shit. I ain’t gonna’ let anything happen to you but I can’t help if it ya do. . .”

He wiggles a hand at you. “This.”

You don’t have the words. He gets closer, and the heat and proximity of him are enough to frighten your demons. You stare back, wounded, gobsmacked by your own foolishness. Again. You wanted to prove you were capable. But. . . it’s not a switch. You can’t just _become_ something else, and like the fool, it causes your Angel concern.

“We’re fucked up, Anon,” he continues. “A real goddamn mess. Swear on my tits, always somethin’. You actin’ like some swinging dick, gettin’ your shit pushed in, freakin’ me out, and then me. . .”

He starts laughing again. “Recoverin’ addict! Overdosin’! Hell’s biggest whore! Aw shit, what a fuckn’ dumpster fire!”

Now he smiles, genuine. He kisses your forehead. “Stop tryin’ to be some machismo fuck and talk to me. N’kay? Let me protect you. You’re safe with me. Ain’t _no one_ gonna’ hurt you, babe, I promise. But if that someone is _you_. . . how can I help?”

You’re defeated. The dread feelings have departed, and damn, now you feel like an idiot. You basically are.

“I’m sorry.”

He starts to shift, pulling his arms away from you, and his fingers come to the sides of his suit, tugging the fabric. He grins as the first layer of clothes is tossed away, and you don’t understand what he’s doing.

“Shut up,” he says, sweet and wanting.

You’re confused. But. . . you realize he’s stripping down. Gloves come off, shirt, down to lace, so his beautiful, slim form is exposed as he drifts to your pants, skilled digits unbuttoning you. Whoa. Whoa, what?

“Angel. . .” you say, surprised. Why? What was this?

“N’tired of you lookin’ sad,” he says, licking lips. He pulls away shoes, socks, your long pants. You can’t stop him. You don’t want to, but you also do. You don’t want this to just _be_ the only thing, you don’t want Angel to only be meat. He’s everything to you, not only a warm hole.

“Angel,” you protest, “You don’t have to, I. . .”

He pushes you into his pink sheets, flinging off your suit pants, massaging the dimensions of your hidden shaft behind briefs. Damn. Even after the shrieking panic attack, it’s hard not to get aroused.

“Shhhhhhh,” he soothes. “I wanna’ make you happy.”

He tugs your shirt up and kisses, hot, smooth lips planted upon your skin, each one a blissful touch, feeding you intimacy and want. Hell’s most beautiful creature is doing this for you, and it hurts how much you love him for it. Devil. Sometimes you wish he’d ask you to steal the world for him. You want it all for Angel, you want his joy, you’d do anything to make him smile.

So maybe trying talking with your best friend?

You clench the sheets, helpless in the spider’s web called “Angel’s bed.” His fluff cleavage presses against your crotch, a single digit prodding at your length, mouthing at the undergarments, suggestive, but sweet.

“Mmmn.”

The chapel, the sanctuary. That’s him. His desire to protect you is indescribably loving. To have him say it, to hear him, to know what he would do. Fuck, Anon! You have to be better! He wants you and you want him! And right now? Right now he’s doing this for _you._ He saw your pain and flinched, enough that he wants it to stop. He cares for you; it hurts so good to know.

The briefs come off. Your hard flank wiggles out, much to the delighted murmur of your partner. He grants a small lick on your crown, wet heat washing over it, forcing a lustful breath from you.

He stares at you, his extra hands rubbing your stomach while he’s prone on the bed.

“I love ya’.”

Fear. Anxiety. They’re gone. For the night they don’t even exist. All those shadows, all those tormenting memories, they scream in terror. Sorry, terrible thoughts, the power of love is just too strong. It’s like a bad romance novel, they stand no chance.

You want to tell him again and again the same, but you can’t, because his mouth wraps around your bellend, obliterating your reasonable mind, a warm groan leaving him, muffled by his action. His tongue dances around your twitching pike, the cadence of someone who knows you. You see, this is different. Angel has explored you, inch by inch. He knows _exactly_ what gets you off, where you’re sensitive. Like the left side, or how you love the  _gentle_ touch of his fangs on skin. And then, for instance, he knows you love. . .

Soft, impossibly sweet lips purse and smooch your tip. “Mwwaaah!”

That.

His cheeks flush and he gives a cute smile when he sees your reaction, absorbing the way you groan, the way your features tug from sheer, indescribable bliss.

He does it again, over and over, along your sides, your tip, your, stones. Each one slow and suckling and intimate. He doesn’t talk right now, he doesn’t need to. Every kiss is his way of saying _this is for you, and only you._

No one can take this now. There’s no fiend, no intruder to stare. No one to possess your private moments. Just you and him.

The air is assaulted with a barrage of sloppy suckling sounds. Angel dives on your inches, down to the hilt, slow, careful, meticulous. Each stroke chokes on your flank, eager to milk you for your issue. Your eye flicks between closed and open. He fills you with black, hot adrenalin, and your heart is beating again for different reasons.

He buries you in his throat, presex and drool slipping from his chin, keeping his wide, beautiful eyes locked to you. He pops your veiny flank free, taking a moment to run his tongue to your stones, caressing the testes with slow, tedious licks, massaging them with the wet, pink rug.

“Agggh! Fuck!”

You’re at a loss. Is this your drug, then? Angel Dust the coping mechanism? Not bad. It also astonishes you how generous he is. This always leaves you in disbelief. To supplicate and submit. It’s why you’re so eager to do the same for him, in any way you can.

He pats his cheek with your length. “What’cha want, stallion? Make a mess outta’ me or want me to swallow?”

Is he being real? You can’t even respond!

He smirks. “Messy it is.”

You didn’t say anything, but fuck, you can’t process it. The tension and stress have sent you over the edge. Normally you’d last a bit longer, but right now you’re in the throes of love, desire, and desperation for relief.

He accepts you into his hot, flexible throat, slamming his head on your inches, gurgles and coughing sputters erupting from his motions. Then, slowly, he peels away, stroking your mast with an expert palm, mouth wide, tongue hanging out, waiting. Agh shit. That’s enough to send you right over the fucking edge. You lose it, body buckling, shaking, your length exploding with waves of white, hot seed, the issue painting visage with needy lines. It coats him, mussing his hair, his cheeks, getting into his eyes, drowning his tongue.

“Gggh!”

He winces, some of it splattering his black sclera. “N’ohfuck!”

He starts to laugh while you just moan, groaning helplessly through orgasm while the spider fiddles with your malehood.

“Whah! Nyaha! Lookit, fuck me pockets, ya’ were backed up! Ah shhhhit!”

As your orgasm settles, he wipes his face, a sticky bridge forming from fingers to face.

“Ah! Haha! My mascara!”

You go limp, watching him grin, as he wipes some of the spunk away. Ah, damn, you didn’t mean to do that. He licks his lips, rising.

“Er, sorry,” you say between breaths.

He’s just tickled. “Don’t be sorry! Popped like a fuckin’ champagne bottle! Atta boy!”

He saunters away, to the bathroom. He’s assaulted by laughs, and it’s. . . so soothing. It’s fun for him. Like it should be for you.

“Hohoholy shit Anon!” you hear him say over the hiss of faucet water. “Take that fucker out next time you're on the job, goddamn howitzer in there!”

You’re not sure if he’s complimenting you just because, but it feels nice. Angel, god. He’s too good for you.

He returns, a cloth wiping away the makeup on his eyes, hips tossing, rump perky from the split of his lace. You want to jump up, tear it off, and suck him, fuck him, and make him feel like the most goddamn important thing in the universe. But, he seems to notice this, and presses a hand on your chest.

“Relax, stallion. Take it easy for tonight.”

“But. . .”

A finger to his lips. “Nnshoosh!”

He hops into bed, eyeing the mess of. . . you on his sheets, throwing the cloth over it.

“Mind cleanin’ that up?”

Like you were going to say no. You rub it down, humorous as this seems, while he strips you out of the rest of your shirt, like he’s in perfect sync with your movements, uninterrupted by your own motions. Once again, you’re bare, exposed, as vulnerable as you could ever be.

The lesson was: expose your chest, get the knife. Well, stab away Angel, stab away.

He watches you, timid fringes of concern tugging his features while you settle back to the sheets.

“Better?”

You look to him. “Yes.”

. . .

“I love you.”

You don’t let him respond before you press your lips to his, hold him, hold him like it’s a matter of life and death, because maybe it is. Intimate warmth explodes inside you, ignites, and by god you hope he understands how much he means to you.

He snickers, lips close and hot. “N’okay, okay, there he is, that’s my Anon. N’love ya too ya fuckin’ dumbass.”

That’s fucking right, you goddamn demonic spider. You belong to him, and only him, and will only _ever_ belong to him.

He holds your face and you hold him close and it’s that private connection, that intimacy, forming the pillars of your chapel. Every honesty and exchange is another stone for the cathedral. You find in him courage and strength and meaning. What else are you without it?

The fear and anxiety are gone. You don’t miss them.

But you do miss _him_.

“Think ya’ can tell me now, pockets? About what’s goin’ on?”

You manage a dry chuckle. “Where do I even begin?”

He wiggles his talon-toes at the hanging, overly-ornate clock. “Shit, babe, I got fuckin’ time.”

“I have dreams,” you start to say. “And I’m drowning in the things I’ve done.”

No, not say. You confess.

Because in this place you are safe with your Angel Dust. As you speak, he listens, and as long as he’s here, no one can hurt you.

[Not in this sanctuary.](https://youtu.be/5-uWlFq380M)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With that, ladies and gents, the next official piece of work I do is the start of Series 2. I hope you're ready. I am not.

**Author's Note:**

> I thought you were supposed to AVOID spider bites?


End file.
